On Their Sleeves
by gloomsday
Summary: Hanna is Not a Boy's Name - Patterns, a needle and thread, an orange shirt, and the act of covering over permanent scars. Hanna/Zombie, WAFF


1.  
Plaid. Checkers. Stripes {both vertical and horizontal}. Argyle. Obligatory solids of brown, white, red, navy, green. Collared button-downs and zip-ups and pullovers.

Hanna's closet was diverse, to say the least. He didn't have much in the way of clothing {or anything, really}, but what he did have possessed a balance of simple complexity. Or possibly complex simplicity: take your pick. Then again, such a statement could be considered apt for most-if not all-aspects of Hanna.

I'd seen him in each and every article of clothing hanging on the meager, bowed rack in front of me. Somehow, he managed to hold up even the boldest of patterns with his broad shoulders. He pulled it off. Not only did he pull it off, but his audacious fashion tastes had long since become a point of association for me. Even the nameless, faceless strangers braving the sidewalks earned a discreet double take the moment I noted the stripes on their shirt or their black and white checkered shoes as I strode by. And then I conjured the immediate and concise image of, simply, Hanna. Hanna smiling, laughing, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, biting his bottom lip in concentration while he practiced drawing new runes, accidentally brushing against me as we maneuvered our way through his tiny apartment complex.

Though to be fair, I associated next to everything with Hanna now. He was the only thing I really, _truly_ knew, after all.

The telltale hissing sound of the running shower faucet came to an abrupt, squeaky halt. I shifted my eyes to the closed bathroom door for a moment, watching the shadows shift between the bottom of the door and the floor while I listened to his gentle footsteps on the linoleum.

I turned back toward his closet, noting that Hanna's favored gray and white striped shirt was missing in the lineup. He wore it often; he'd even been wearing it the day we met, so I always held some sort of inexplicable fondness for it-even if it made him look like a most unconvincing convict.

My trench coat hung in the far corner of Hanna's closet, tucked away and all but draped by a dark pink polo shirt of his. He'd insisted that we share the space. "This is your home too, you know," he said with a hint of playful chastisement in his voice as he shoved his clothes down the rack to make room for mine. I'd kept my coat there since, not just because Hanna had already made his mind up {and trying to dissuade him was near impossible}, but because it led me to believe that he wanted me there just as much as I wanted to be.

I'm not sure what good deeds I must have done in my past to earn such kindness from one person, but I would hang my clothes next to his-for as long as he needed me to-if it brought him so much as a sliver of happiness. He deserved as much.

I reached for my coat but paused in mid-stretch at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Steam billowed from the top of the door frame as Hanna emerged, ruffling a towel over his already curling hair. Some of the steam clung to his glasses, and I could tell by the hesitant way in which he walked that he couldn't see two feet in front of him until the lenses cleared. I grabbed at my coat, unhooking it from the hanger in a sense of panic {like I was hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd been staring into his closet for the whole duration of his shower} and shrugged it onto my shoulders in an unfamiliar yet fluid, seemingly practiced motion: a broken fragment of memory from when I was alive, perhaps.

Hanna whistled. "Smooth," he said in passing, elbowing me gently in the ribs. "Ready to go?" He dropped the wet towel on the back of his office chair and smoothed his shirt. His striped shirt, of course. The bold streaks of gray and white adhering to the sharp curve of his back brought a rush of familiarity through my chest, like a sudden lack of breath or a loss of words.

The fedora Hanna had given to me for Christmas hung on the back of the same chair. Just as I had set my sights on it, Hanna snatched it, turned to me and presented the hat on his forefinger. His eyebrows raised in clear excitement. Giving it a few twirls on his fingertip, Hanna strode over to me. Even as he pushed himself onto the tips of his toes he still had to tilt his chin up to meet my gaze; he reached and set the hat on my head. Then, he steadied his feet flat on the floor once again-the vast gap between our heights all the more emphasized now-and grinned. It fit me perfectly and he knew it.

Not only had Hanna taken me in without question or hesitation, but he looked after me, cared for me, clothed me. No one else in the world would have seen the glass half full upon finding a dead man on the other side of their door, but Hanna had. I owed him so much more than he would ever realize, more than just the small expense of a hat or a place to stay. Being around Hanna and his abundant energy somehow made me feel alive again, and there was nothing in the world I could do for him that could even begin to add up.

I touched the brim of my hat and pushed the backside of the crown down a little further so that it rested snugly on my head. Hanna's smile indicated his clear approval.

"This," Hanna said, still looking at me, "is going to be our best case yet!"

2.  
Amidst the subsiding chaos, Hanna's presence shocked me back into my own. Faint echoes of his voice rang in my ears and shapes and colors melted together in front of my eyes; aside from coming back from the grave, this was-no contest-the most disorienting experience I'd encountered. Then everything returned to me and the inner recesses of my mind dimmed and fell into the background. I looked down to Hanna standing beside me. The palm of his hand glowed in the shape of a rune, warm to the touch when he pressed against my arm in a feeble attempt to hold me up. His expression immediately faltered from a half-hearted, relieved grin to a more more sincere, apologetic smile. Then I noticed the scar, spanning the entire length of his torso in a clean zigzag cut and stapled together in a crude but effective manner.

I knew, and he knew that I knew.

I wanted to tell him how angry I was-angry at how he _twisted_ away from me once he realized I'd seen his mutilated body, like by doing so he was sparing me from some sort of monstrosity I wouldn't be able to bear. Angry that he even had the audacity to draw his shirt back over his head with his back turned to me, and then act like nothing had happened. Angry that we didn't speak as we walked home in the cold, and that, for some reason, I blamed myself for everything.

I wanted to tell him all these things, but I couldn't find a way to formulate the words on my tongue. Or perhaps I didn't have the courage to risk him pushing me away. So instead, I stood just inside Hanna's apartment and watched him make himself look busy. He gathered some papers on the floor that had been there for over a week and set them on top of the keyboard of his computer. He stooped and fluffed his pillow. He picked up a stray button on the floor from one of his shirts and set it on his mattress chair. My gaze followed him as he went about these meaningless tasks without so much as an acknowledgment of me, though I was sure he felt my cold stare on him the whole time.

After a few minutes of this, he finally looked at me.

"Man, I'm beat," Hanna said. He outstretched his arms like a child pretending to be an airplane or a bird and fell backwards onto his mattress. Lacing his hands behind his head, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath in and out. "I think I'll just hit the sack a little early if that's all right with you."

I shrugged to myself, as if doing so would make me believe that I didn't care. "Sure," I said, crossing the apartment into the kitchen and drawing my coat off at the same time. "You know where the needle and thread is?" I asked.

Hanna's eyes opened and he sat up. "Why? You okay?"

"Some of the stitching on my shoulder is a little loose. Must have been from swinging that crowbar around."

Hanna frowned and pointed at me. "That wasn't you. It was that ghost."

"I know."

He paused and glanced around the apartment. "Want me to do it?"

"You should get your rest. I'll be fine," I said.

But Hanna was already up and rummaging through a pile of books and dirty clothes on the kitchen counter beside me before I could say otherwise. He drew out a single spool of black thread with a needle snaked between by the tightly wound fibers. "Err, maybe you should sit down," Hanna said, glancing at my shoulder as if it were an unreachable mountain peak. If I hadn't been in such a poor mood I would have smiled.

Hanna went about clearing the chair next to his bed; he closed his laptop with the papers inside and set it on the floor. I took the opportunity to unbutton and remove my shirt so he wouldn't have to worry about it getting in the way. Once Hanna had finished, he turned to me, his mouth open as if preparing to say something. Instead he froze. He had seen me without a shirt on before {I wasn't nearly as secretive as far as my 'scars' went} but something in the way he looked at me was notably different. He closed his mouth and forced a smile.

"Which one is it?" he said, eying the different stitches on my neck and shoulders as I took a seat.

I pointed to a long stitch that spanned my shoulder blade all the way to the collarbone. Stitches like these were the ones that reminded me of all those years I'd spent rotting away. I didn't particularly like to be reminded of that time, and for once I was glad to be unable to remember something.

Hanna withdrew the needle from the spool and threaded it after a few failed attempts. His hands were shaking a little, but I chose to ignore it. Otherwise, I have might not have been able to bite my tongue. "This might hurt a little," he said, much like a doctor might {one must differentiate between a doctor and Doc Worth, however, who would probably never say something like that and mean it}. He pressed the tip of the needle into my skin as gently as he could manage. "How's that?"

The pricks of pain came and went in waves of greater and lesser strength as he wove the thread through my flesh over the first row of sutures. "Fine," I said. Working his way from the collarbone over the shoulder, I could feel the skin tightening and coming together. I couldn't believe Hanna didn't seem to mind doing this once in a while; anyone else might have been repulsed by it-by me.

"Almost done." He secured his finishing stitch with an uncomfortable tug. "Sorry," he said, having no doubt felt me tense. "Just want to make sure it won't come apart and all."

I nodded. Hanna bent down and bit the string off.

"What do you think?" he said.

I rotated my shoulder and stretched my arm out. "Better. Thank you."

"No problem," Hanna said, welcoming the distraction and subsequent break in tension between us. He intertwined the needle back into the spool and set it back on the counter where he'd found it. He then made his way over to the closet, where he picked out one of his oversized shirts from the rack. I rose to my feet and followed him, running a hand over his needlework. He'd done a good job; then again, he always did his best, and the best was enough for me.

Hanna glanced at me over his shoulder as I approached. I leaned against the wall beside the closet and crossed my arms. Skeptical, he raised an eyebrow and laughed. "Is the end knot not tight enough or something? I'm not so good with tying them off," he said, craning his neck to get a better look at the stitches.

"Hanna," I said at length, rubbing the back of my neck as I still struggled to find the words.

"Oh, hey could you hold that thought?" he said frantically, not even waiting for me to answer before brushing past me into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him but didn't lock it. Hanna had to be the most unconvincing liar I'd ever met.

I sighed and trailed after him, resting my forehead against the door. "Hanna," I tried again.

"Don't," Hanna said, the barrier between us muffling his suddenly serious voice. "_Please_ don't worry about me, all right? I didn't want you to worry. I'm fine, okay?"

"Okay," I said after a moment of hesitation. I rolled my shirt up in a ball in my fists and clenched it tightly. Why did he have to be so frustrating?

The sound of rustling clothes drifted from across the door.

"May I come in?" I asked, not sure where such boldness had come from.

Hanna didn't answer.

I waited another minute or so for a reply I knew I wasn't going to get, realizing that there hadn't been any signs of movement on the other side of the door since I'd asked. Contemplating whether or not that was an answer in and of itself, I found my hand twitching to turn the doorknob. I gave in. The door gave way as I grasped the handle and twisted it slowly; I opened it just enough to peer in.

Hanna stood with both hands gripping either side of the sink, staring at his exposed body in the mirror. He remained completely still even as I swung the door open a little more, but the immediate trace of a blush began to span the bridge of his nose and his cheeks upon my entry. I eased my way into the tiny bathroom and closed the door behind me. With barely enough standing room for the both of us, I backed into the shower's sliding glass door in a concerted effort to avoid pushing up against Hanna.

The scar's prominence on his otherwise small body couldn't be overlooked. Five staples held the single wound together, stretching the skin in ways skin was never intended to endure; not a pretty sight by any means. Yet, I found myself staring at it, not out of horror or disgust, but in awe that the man before me was even living. Relieved that he was alive. Still so very alive.

The runes he'd scrawled onto himself earlier that night to rescue me remained, the thick black strokes in stark contrast to his pale complexion. Each one reminded me of what he'd gone through-and what he gave up-to protect me.

And I thought it was my job to keep _him_ safe.

Hanna's eyes suddenly snapped to mine, the shame and embarrassment and self-consciousness pushing to the fore. Fearing that this unwanted exposure would end in disaster, I felt for the collar of my shirt still in my hands and draped it over Hanna's shoulders.

Hanna touched my fingers as he brought my shirt forward over his arms. He slid his hands through the sleeves. My shirt was was much too big on him in every area; the sleeves bunched halfway down his forearm, the collar too wide, and the length almost to his knees. Yet somehow it suited him just fine. I smiled and helped wrap the bright orange fabric around his body, covering over his scar in the process. Hanna pinned both sides together with his hands, clutching so tightly that his knuckles paled.

I bent down and shut my eyes, absorbing each distressed shudder while I nestled against his back. My arms encircled his skinny abdomen, large hands grazing over Hanna's comparatively tiny wrists and the line of his scar before finding their places over his heart and just above his hip. The staples' cold metal-apparent even through the fabric of my shirt-brought about a whole new rush of pain through my body, much more painful than being stitched back together or even having my stitches being torn apart. Yet, the beat of his already accelerated heart quickened at my touch. So much life still left within him. A life I was willing to do anything for to sustain.

He didn't have to tell me. As long as I could be there for him: to protect him when his sense of self-preservation faltered, to stand beside him when he felt alone, or to wrap my shirt around him just to let him know that I cared about him more than anything, that was all I needed.


End file.
